


Keep your 'lectric eye on me, babe

by EllaStorm



Series: The meaning in between [1]
Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: First Time, Gratuitous Smut, M/M, mention of drug use, mention of painful ending to the whole affair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-23 09:59:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6113020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllaStorm/pseuds/EllaStorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brian might not be heroin, and Curt might not be using any more. Still, he's addicted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep your 'lectric eye on me, babe

**Author's Note:**

> Watched Velvet Goldmine, had a breakdown because of its overwhelming perfection, felt the need to dabble in using pretty words to write smut.
> 
> The title, of course, is a quote shamelessly ripped from David Bowie's ridiculously amazing song "Moonage Daydream".
> 
> Douse yourself in glitter and enjoy the show!

It’s not the alcohol. Or the side effects of the heroin, for that matter – he’s been clean for days. Still, this feels eerily like some of the best trips Curt’s ever been on. The world is a little tilted, painted in soft colours, devoid of anything bleak. All Curt sees are big heart eyes and plush lips; and yet he feels something mysteriously less innocent pouring towards him over that lunch table, wrapping itself around him like velvet.

"You could be my main man." he hears himself say, and that’s a good thing, probably, because the alternative would have been any combination of _I want to write songs about the colour of your eyes_ and _Bend me over that table and fuck me._

Brian’s smile tells him that he’s spotted the subtext anyway.

 

***

 

Unlike any trip Curt has ever been on, this one doesn’t end with his head in a toilet bowl, uncontrollable shivers and hallucinations of crawling roaches under his skin. (It ends with ill-conceived insults screamed into the night and the knowledge that something beautiful had died a violent death. But that’s another story.) This trip takes him higher than he’s ever been, out of orbit, right to where Brian seems to be all the time _._ It breathes air into Curt’s empty creative space, Brian smiling, Brian talking, Brian _existing,_ and there it is, _Satellite of Love_ written on a single guitar shared between them with fifteen and a half smokes in the ashtray at 3 am.

 

Brian looks at him with bright, bright, bright in his eyes, and Curt feels like something has kicked him in the gut, and ripped his tongue out, when Brian slides closer, into his personal space, the taste of smoke and electric current palpable in the small space between their lips. It’s better than anything he’s ever injected with a needle.

 

“I love your music”, Brian breathes, and Curt feels the sentence tingle on his lips and then sway past them right into his lungs. “Our music.” Brian’s mouth is a hot, soft thing against Curt’s, the tip of his tongue a promise of the vast unknown, and Curt objects, if only in his mind, because his mouth is too busy opening in a moan, sliding against Brian’s in a much less subtle, more primal way, but in his mind he thinks _no, not mine, not even ours. Just yours._

_The music. Me._

_Yours._

 

***

 

When they fuck for the first time, they’re doing it looking at each other across a crowded room full of naked, grinding bodies. It’s more intimate than the spatial distance would suggest, and as Curt gets up, still high from his orgasm, his eyes never leaving Brian’s eyes, Brian gets up as well and follows him to the next room, lets his trousers be pulled down to the floor and himself down to the bed, glorious contact of skin on skin; and that’s the second time they fuck.

Curt is still in awe, even more then, as Brian puts his hands and his mouth on him, a painfully elegant vision of sin, his movements graceful and deliberate, until Curt, completely on instinct (there’s nothing much else left of him, anyway), takes over and turns Brian into a shaking, moaning, achingly beautiful mess beneath him, the enigma unravelled in the filthiest way possible as Brian begs, _begs,_ and Curt is only too happy to oblige, to take him apart and put him back together with every movement of his hips.

 

The next day Brian wakes him with a soft touch of lips to eylid and asks him to go away with him for some time. Curt doesn’t even have to think _yes_ , before he says it.

 

***

 

A few months later the whole thing ends with ill-conceived insults screamed into the night and the knowledge that something beautiful had died a violent death.

 

But that’s another story.


End file.
